


Odin|One

by Deus_Ex



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Helmut Zemo is the Worst, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Torture, It's Not Bucky's Fault, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, One Shot, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Past Torture, Protective Steve Rogers, Revenge, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, T'Challa Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark is an Asshole, everybody needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 13:17:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deus_Ex/pseuds/Deus_Ex
Summary: Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet. Pech. Devyat. Dorbroserdechnyy. Vozyvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon.
Bucky's working on the words.  Tony learns them first.





	

Steve probably thought that the hurt had faded with time. The anger. The thirst for vengeance. All dissipated into thin air, as all smoke eventually dissolves. It was likely why he had let his precious pet wander all along sometimes now. He thought that all ill will towards him had vanished. He thought that he no longer blamed his little pet for the death of his parents. That he'd come around and seen things "properly" and acknowledged the lack of guilt that Rogers himself insisted upon.

He was wrong.

He managed to get Barnes alone one day; completely by chance, but a chance he leaped at anyway. The moment he laid eyes on him, he felt every ounce of that rage flare up again, and he knew without a doubt that he was going to act. He'd thought about nothing else since the blood first rushed in his ears as that video played out before him. Heart hammering in his chest, vision clouding over red, world narrowing to that one moment, he began to speak, as quick as he could without running the words together.

"Zhelaniye."

He'd studied these words for weeks. Pored over them endlessly. Obsessed over them to the point that their echo was constantly bouncing around his skull. Stared at them until they blurred. Repeated them until they lost any and all individual meaning. They were not words themselves; they were part of a whole.

"Rzhavvy."

Barnes deserved no peace. No happiness. No love. Not after everything he'd done. He would pay for his crimes, and not even Rogers could protect him.

"Semnadtsat."

By now, Barnes realized what was happening: he whipped around, eyes wide and terrified; the knowledge only filled him with satisfaction. He pushed on.

"Rassvet. Pech. Devyat."

It all flowed so smoothly, rolling off his tongue with a sweet taste that spread through his body and settled into his bones.

"Dorbroserdechnyy."

And Barnes wasn't attacking him, but he was talking, trying to drown it out, saying anything to make it stop-but he wasn't coming towards him. Oddly, he was backing away, blinding scrambling behind him with his right arm like he was looking for something to hold on to. He found nothing, and the rising panic lashed through him like more of the blissful satisfaction. It rose and crested and filled him, and rippled and amplified with every step he advanced on him, still letting the words fall like physical blows. For the reactions he was getting, they may as well have been.

"Vozyvrashcheniye na rodinu."

Still backpedaling, graceless and ungainly and sloppy-perhaps he should have wondered why. Why was he running? Why was he not screaming or fighting or attacking him? Why was he not lashing out to try and stop this? But the rage continued to blind him as the words fell again and again.

"Odin."

Now, he expected an attack, as the final word rose and crested like a crushing wave before it fell-but still, none came. Desperate, backed into a corner now, Barnes resembled a deer in headlights rapidly approaching as opposed to the cold, dead killer he'd seen with his hands around his mother's throat. It still changed nothing.

"Gruzovoy vagon."

The change was visible: like someone had dropped a curtain. James Buchanan Barnes was gone, and only the Winter Soldier remained. Standing straight now, with nothing in his eyes and nothing on his face, the Winter Soldier stood in front of him, a silent, menacing weapon that he had total control over. Another, final curl of satisfaction lanced through him. This was the man he had been hoping to meet tonight. They had unfinished business that he fully intended to wrap up for good in a neat little bow. Smugness settling in his belly with a pleased purr, he stepped forward, snapping, "Soldat!"

And if he said he didn't feel that lick of physical pleasure when he heard the words ("Ja gotov otvečat’,") well...he'd be lying.

"Mission report: December 16th, 1991."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky was late getting back that night, Steve noticed. Normally he was back from the gym by now. Six days a week, Bucky could be found at the extensive, comprehensive training facilities housed in the Avengers complex, drilling himself in every kind of workout imaginable for three hours straight. Sometimes Steve went with him; other times, like tonight, he encouraged Bucky to go by himself to give him a chance to open up to some of the others there. Natasha, he knew, was someone that Bucky trusted a great deal, but he knew that his best friend was also becoming quite close with Wanda Maximoff and Sam Wilson. Vision unnerved him, and Rhodey filled him with guilt; T'Challa, mercifully, had remained home in Wakanda, eliminating any complicated feelings on his end; Clint was rarely present. But when he was, Bucky seemed to do alright with him. So Steve went often enough to give support, but not so often that Bucky wasn't pushed into forming bonds with some of the people around him. They were good people that Steve trusted, and they would be good for Bucky.

He was really starting to worry when the door finally opened and Bucky walked through (going past hour four by now,) and he looked so exhausted that Steve made it halfway out of his chair before he managed to choke down the urge to bolt across the room, pull Bucky into his arms, and carry him the rest of the way. The way he was holding himself screamed that he had pushed himself too hard: like he was afraid to let his arms brush his sides and thighs as he walked, like bending any of his joints caused him remarkable anguish, like every movement was a trial. But he still did Steve to courtesy of glancing to him first, and offering him the saddest, tiredest attempt at a smile Steve had ever seen in some token effort to reassure him that he was fine.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Steve got up from the table where he'd been sitting long after he finished dinner and went to take the bag Bucky had slung over one shoulder. "What were you doing?" he asked, tone more imploring and beseeching than casually inquiring.

Bucky gratefully handed him the bag, the first red flag, and then skittishly side-stepped the arm Steve went to throw around his waist. "I'm-I'm fine," he tried to say, but the words were about as convincing as his hollow smile. "I was finishing up when Tony came down...wanted to spar, so I hung around. We, uh...kinda kicked the crap out of each other."

Steve wasn't blind. He'd seen the flash of something pass across Bucky's eyes, even if it was gone too quickly for him to read it. Yes, he'd seen Tony...but it hadn't been friendly. Especially if he was now hugging his arms to his sides and stomach, like he was protecting vulnerable areas. It ripped Steve apart inside to see Bucky step away from him, look at him with such trepidation in his gaze, but in the end, he needed to let Bucky be. He needed to respect Bucky's need for space, even if the concern was filling him to the brim so that he felt like he was choking on it, like it was going to start overflowing and coming out his ears-

"You need anything?" He was impressed with how level and calm it sounded.

"Nah, I'm alright. Gonna shower first, though. Might help."

It was all Steve could do to helplessly nod, and offer, "I made dinner earlier. Help yourself; the leftovers are in the fridge. Come to bed when you're ready, okay?"

"'course. Thanks, Stevie."

"Any time, Buck."

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

It happened three more times before Steve finally caught on.

_Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet. Pech. Devyat. Dorbroserdechnyy. Vozyvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon. Soldat?_

_Ja gotov otvečat’_

They'd started sleeping in the same bed again. Between the nightmares and the loneliness and the sleeplessness, they'd both ended up in each other's rooms more often than not anyway. And while they no longer had the excuse of Steve's troubled breathing and sickly demeanor and a lack of decent heat, no one seemed to question the arrangement. In fact, no one even batted an eye when, after a particularly nerve-wracking night full of flashbacks and panic attacks, Steve had pulled Bucky into his arms, wrapped him up tight enough to resist even gravity itself tearing Bucky away, and kissed into the long, dark-brown hair that Bucky had taken to wearing longer these days. Bucky himself hadn't even seemed to mind: if anything, he burrowed down deeper into Steve's arms, tangled his fingers (both flesh and metal) into his shirt, and clung like a burr. So the lines became blurred and the situation became complicated and no one really knew what they were or if there was a word for it, but no one seemed bothered, least of all the two of them. So it stayed the way it was.

Bucky seemed particularly painful after another long, long day at the gym. Even climbing into the cloud-soft bed they shared, with the sheets softer than the breath of a warm summer's breeze, seemed to pain him as if everything was heated to a thousand degrees, and nowhere was safe to touch. Every movement seemed to erupt in an endless fount of agony-moreso than usual. Concern creasing his brow and pulling at the corners of his lips, Steve rolled over and opened his arms, letting Bucky come straight to him. He looked devastated, broken, on the verge of a breakdown...like he was about to fall apart. It had only been getting worse lately, and Steve had to wonder what made Bucky push himself so hard some days. Was he remembering more? Were some days just worse than others? He wanted at ask, but at the same time, it felt like it would be invasive, but now Bucky was self-destructing, and if it was a matter of safety, then...

The moment he laid his arm across Bucky's waist, he felt it. A horrible tremor went through Bucky, a deep shudder that went through him only when he loathed the touch but was too terrified to pull away. A high-pitched, agonized gasp tore from his throat, and his whole body curled up and seemed to shrink to half its size. Steve snatched his hand away as if burned, sitting bolt upright and staring down at Bucky and wondering why the long sleeves. He said the plates on the new arm didn't recalibrate the way the old ones did, and he was still getting used to the way these slid and shifted and sometimes it got caught on things in the meantime and it was just easier to protect it, but Steve wasn't buying it now-

"Bucky-"

Bucky just reached out again, refusing to meet his eyes even as he grabbed and clutched at his hand like he was fighting to keep Steve from walking away, and only then did Steve realize that, yes, Bucky was terrified, but he was absolutely too terrified to even ask for help.

It took coaxing, but eventually, he saw the bruises. The cuts. The burns. The marks left by a cruel hand that was far too fresh to blame on HYDRA. Struggling to keep his tears in check, not aided by Bucky's wordlessness and trembling, Steve treated what he could and bandaged what he couldn't, including wrapping the broken ribs that had initially alerted him to what was going on. Bucky refused to talk, refused to let go of him, so Steve just sat, holding him in his arms and trying to fill the horrid silence with enough comforts to blot out whatever demon lurked only inches behind Bucky's back.

The next time Bucky went down to the gym, several days later seemingly much more recovered, Steve followed.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Zhelaniye. Rzhavyy. Semnadtsat. Rassvet. Pech. Devyat. Dorbroserdechnyy. Vozyvrashcheniye na rodinu. Odin. Gruzovoy vagon. Soldat?_

_Ja gotov otvečat’_

The only thing that kept him from vomiting was the knowledge that, if he did, his cover would be blown, he would never know what was truly going on, and he'd likely have to fight off Bucky himself as the Winter Soldier took over. Instead, he forced himself to sit quietly, watch silently, as Tony Goddamn Stark read off, in the coldest voice Steve had ever heard, the list of nine words that would turn Bucky into a mindless slave. And Bucky...god, Bucky just sat there. On his knees. Trembling with fear, because he knew what was coming, but slipping further and further back into the programming every time Tony reactivated it, carving through his brain like someone hacking through an unripe fruit with a dull, rusty knife. Terrified of the pain he knew was coming, but hoping, if he behaved, that maybe this time it would be easier to bear.

He watched as much as he could. Forced himself to witness it, record a video, because no one would believe him later, take photos, make sure faces were visible-and then, when he had that, and had seen more than enough of Tony ordering Bucky to mutilate himself in increasingly appalling ways-he showed himself, amazingly calmly for the fury that was threatening to explode any moment now, and told himself to take it slow to avoid a fight with Bucky. That was the last thing they needed right now.

"Stop."

Tony looked irate when he turned around, and nothing else; Bucky hesitated, looking between Tony and Steve like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to obey Steve as well or only Tony. Already incensed, Tony spun back around and lashed out at Bucky, cruelly knocking him to the ground and screaming inches from his face, spittle flying as he railed abuse-and then, Steve decided, he'd had enough. Tony received the same punch that he'd offered Bucky, blindsiding him and knocking him clear off his feet, stunning him just long enough for Steve to recite the list, nearly stumbling over the words in his desperation-but it was clear enough, and quick enough, and just _enough_ that when he cried, "Soldier, retreat to my room, lock the door, and don't let anyone in except me!" Bucky recognized a new handler and did as he was told. The relief was most prominent in Steve's mind, but the nausea made an insistent encore appearance. What had he just done to Bucky? Had he saved him, or had he betrayed him?

He had no idea, but he would find out soon enough.

He beat Tony within an inch of his life. More than once, both of them thought that he was going to kill him. There were times when Steve, unable to stop, had simply pounded and pounded and pounded until Tony had managed to kick into another gear and beat him back, even momentarily, just long enough to get a breath into his lungs so he could withstand the next barrage. Without the suit, though, he had little resistance to offer against an enhanced human, and he ended up shielding his face, throat, and chest and not much more. By the time Steve had finished pummeling Tony, a small crowd had gathered, people who had seen Bucky walking past with determination and focus and were looking for Steve, worried, but wanting to see if everything was alright first. Apparently, no one wanted to step between them, because, judging by the astonished faces, most of them had been there for quite some time, but had not intervened.

By now, all the fury had been bled out of him; only the hatred, the revulsion, the sorrow, and the misery were left. Panting like he'd just run a thousand miles, only now realizing that his cheeks were wet, Steve flopped onto his rear end next to Tony's still and lifeless form, taking comfort in the shallow rise and fall of battered shoulders as he hesitated there, legs still askew and tangled in Tony's own from grappling for leverage. And then, a moment later, he heaved himself to his feet, handed Sam his phone, found the nearest bathroom, and threw up everything he had in his stomach. With all the rage having left him, all he could see in the front of his mind was the sneer on Tony's face when he contemptuously told Bucky to make another cut in his flesh for every second he spent choking the life out of Maria Stark.

It could have been seconds or years that passed in a haze then, but soon enough, someone came to disturb him. Still leaning over the sink he'd grabbed like a lifeline and puked into, sides heaving as his ribs flared like bellows around his lungs, Steve closed his eyes against the view of Sam in his periphery and shook his head hopelessly. He wasn't ready to talk about this yet. He wasn't ready to even look anyone else in the face. Sam, mercifully, didn't ask him any questions or say anything to try to bring him around: he must have known Steve wouldn't have responded well. Instead, he just told him, "We watched the video...on your phone. Natasha and Wanda went to find Bucky and stand guard outside your room. They're not trying to go in, they're just letting him know they're there and keeping everyone else away. Vision's taking Tony to the hospital, where he'll be treated...and then arrested."

Perhaps the notion should have comforted him; but Steve was too numb now to take any solace from it. Bent nearly double over a white ceramic public-bathroom-style locker room sink, barely able to open his eyes to face what had happened, it was all he could do to run the water to try to wash down some of the dinner he was staring at for the second time today. And still, Sam was exactly what he needed, staying just outside of arm's reach so he was close but not too close, letting Steve be and not doing anything unless it was asked for, not even handing him a paper towel for his face as he rinsed his mouth and spit again.

"And I'm gonna stay with you."

But that was enough to begin to plant the seeds of relief in his heart.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he could muster the energy to leave the bathroom and return to his room, pointedly skirting the bloodstains on the floor that were only several minutes old, Steve was endlessly relieved to find the door unlocked and Natasha and Wanda sitting inside with Bucky. Bucky, who was wholly himself again, albeit shaken and upset. The first thing he did when he saw Steve was bolt to his feet, spring across the table in an impressive show of athleticism, and tumble into his arms, burying his face in Steve's chest as Steve ferociously returned the embrace. "I don't blame you," he blurted out, immediately assuaging the fears Steve held that Bucky would be upset over the use of his trigger words. Breathing out a long, heavy sigh of relief, Steve somehow found a chair at the table and sat down, Bucky folding into his lap, and without hesitation he pressed a comforting kiss to his temple. Natasha, Sam, and Wanda were silent in regards to the display, but Natasha broke the silence soon enough.

"I talked him out of it," she explained, both of her slim, long-fingered hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. "He came back a few minutes ago. He doesn't want to go to medical, says it's all perfectly treatable here." And the warning glance she leveled at him over the top of Bucky's bowed head said plenty. "Maybe you can help him with it later, when he's calmed down a bit."

The nod to Natasha was immediate, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of Bucky. Despite everything he'd just been through, he just looked relieved. Like all his problems had vanished now that Steve was here. He probably just knew, on some level, that Steve would stop the whole world so it rotated around Bucky. And hey, he would. There was no shame in it, either. Steve would bring the whole world crashing down and watch it burn just to ensure Bucky's safety. The only thing keeping the self-loathing at bay right now for his perceived failure was the fact that everyone else was here, talking and distracting him from it. There was no room to focus on anything but dealing with this.

"We can't stay here."

Natasha hardly looked surprised, even if she looked disappointed. "Where are you thinking of going?"

"Wakanda." It was Bucky who answered, and while it wasn't Steve's first choice, he wouldn't deny it to Bucky for anything. He'd ask why later.

"T'Challa is a good man," Natasha agreed, voice soft and gentle. "He will be able to protect you."

Steve said nothing; what was there left to say? He whole-heartedly believed, as Natasha had said, that T'Challa would do right by them. What else was there to it? Staring down at Bucky, envying the peace and trust on his face but wishing the dark undertones that were leftovers of fear and pain would fade away faster, all Steve could think was that he was so, so lucky to have people around him who understood, and wouldn't question him when he said "we."

"I can get you both a flight out of here in two hours," Natasha continued, when the silence stretched on and it became clear that Steve wasn't going to say anything else. "Call T'Challa and let him know you're on the way. I'll get the arrangements set."

"I'll help you pack," Wanda offered. Steve's heart surged with gratitude: he really did have wonderful people in his life.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arriving in Wakanda was an anticlimactic experience, even if the king himself was there to greet them. T'Challa looked proudly at Bucky's arm, a matte black finish devoid of any emblem, replaced here in Wakanda after Bucky had emerged from cryofreeze. They'd thought they'd taken care of the triggers then, at least removed the violence from or made them able to be resisted-clearly, T'Challa had questions for them, but was gracious enough to save them. "I am glad to see you again," he greeted, thick accent lending a feline roll to his words. Very much like the panther whose form he adopted when he fought. "But regrettably under such circumstances."

"We're very happy that you're having us," Steve admitted honestly, slinging his single bag over his shoulder and moving to grab Bucky's as well until his friend snatched it back with an amused, yet bewildered grin.

T'Challa showed them to a small villa a ways away-close enough to be close, but still with plenty of space for their own and a bit of privacy. Tucked away in a little nook in the tropical scenery, Steve found the endless greenery and sounds of the wildlife endlessly soothing. Bucky seemed plenty at ease with the balmy atmosphere, too: breathing in deeply, like he could breathe in the warmth and let it fill him from head to toe. Even inside, he switched off the air conditioning and opened the windows instead, ignoring Steve's gentle reminders about, "but what if it rains? It does that a lot here."

They'd thrown their bags into one room; there were two bedrooms, but there was a king-sized bed in each. No one needed to know who slept where, but there were options. The house itself was full of neutral colors, lots of whites and browns and greens and grays, all of it very cool and a bit austere in nature, but comfortable nonetheless. Once he had finished flooding the house with humidity, Bucky flopped down on the bed, barely pausing to kick off his shoes before shimmying up to crash in the middle of the pile of pillows against the plain headboard. Steve, headed for his bag to unpack, instead paused, considered, and then joined Bucky on the bed. The contented sigh he received when Bucky settled against his side told him he'd made the right call. His bag wasn't going anywhere; unpacking could be an evening project.

"What happens now?"

Such a loaded question; one Steve hadn't really wanted to hear, let alone address. But he owed it to Bucky, he reminded himself: honesty, if nothing else. So, after a few seconds' silence, he admitted,

"I don't know."

Bucky hardly seemed perturbed; he must have expected that answer. "We'll figure it out," he replied instead, sending a surge of love and guilt through Steve. What was Bucky doing comforting him? Shouldn't it be the other way around?

"Zhelaniye."

Steve's heart gave a lurch: the kind of lurch that it gives in the micro-second between when you miss the step and when you hit the next one. The kind of lurch it gives when you slip, and you're swaying and falling and you haven't caught yourself yet. The kind of lurch it gives when someone doesn't answer a question right away, and you fear you have asked entirely the wrong thing. It was the first of Bucky's trigger words, but for the first time, Steve was facing the knowledge that he didn't know the translations of them.

"You know what that means, pal?"

No. No, he didn't. And his silence, held by the lump in his throat that he couldn't seem to dislodge, answered Bucky perfectly.

"Means 'longing.' You see, when they picked the words, they didn't just pick random words. They picked words that meant something. So, longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car. I'm sure you know all about those."

And he did. The longing they'd had for each other during the war, when they weren't even sure if the other was alive; the rusted rail that had sent Bucky plummeting away from Steve; the seventeen missions they'd fought together before Bucky's capture; the light of daybreak as he pulled him from Zola's lab and into the fresh air for the first time in nine days; the utter relief as they were told that everything they found lingering from Zola's experiments was benign; the joy of being able to come home to each other, even if home was a tent on the battlefield; the one time Steve had failed, and the freight car that had finally concluded a long, grueling chapter of their lives. Bowing his head, squeezing his eyes shut firmly against the reaction to the knowledge welling up inside of him, Steve rested his forehead against the crown of Bucky's head, burying his face in the dark brown hair that used to be so much shorter and breathing in deeply, using the light citrus scent that remained in Bucky's hair to remind himself that this was real, they were here, and they were safe.

"I've gotten about half of them," Bucky added, voice nearly a whisper as he told Steve, "I've made new memories. That was why T'Challa brought me out. He figured that I couldn't just sleep it off, it wasn't going to fade that way. And I was doing good. Zhelaniye isn't missing you on some Godforsaken field in the middle of European nowhere, now it's...waking up in the morning by myself and waiting for you to get back from your run. Rassvet isn't seeing the light of day for the first time in weeks after Zola's lab, it's when I wake up when you do and go for a run with you and we watch the sun rise between mile eight and nine. Devyat is that ninth mile, when I take a deep breath and get that cold air just want to run forever, because I _can_ now. Vozyvrashcheniye na rodinu isn't a couple minutes alone in a tent where we think we can get away with it, it's _this,_ this, right now." Sucking in a deep breath, Bucky shifted and squirmed closer; Steve let him, even as his heart continued to pound and his muscles were beginning to shake with the effort of holding it all in. "Give it time."

Steve would give anything, he was convinced: anything to never see that look in Bucky's eyes again, the haunted, tortured, empty shell of a man who had purged himself of anything and everything in order to survive. To give him time was absolutely nothing at all. He almost wished Bucky had asked for more; it seemed too simple, too easy. The hardest thing to do was nothing, after all.

"Whatever you need."

And the smile that came to Bucky's face then was worth it, oh, so worth it-Steve felt that knot in his gut begin to loosen, felt the lump in his throat start to shrink. Until Bucky murmured, "Odin."

Startled, sitting up a bit, Steve had already opened his mouth to ask the question when Bucky beat him to it with the explanation. And then, all the bad feelings fled, and Steve was utterly convinced that everything was going to be okay:

"The one time I believed you when you said you could be patient."

**Author's Note:**

> Dead dove or nah?
> 
> Comments/kudos make me happy and validate my fragile existence. Also, someone come cry about all the Bucky feels with me, and maybe discuss if a Bucky/T'Challa thing should happen.


End file.
